


Stitches

by liaw-mostlydead (Firefly264)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Bro isn't exactly a good parent but he's trying I guess, Pre-Canon, Self-Hatred, based on fanart, dave is too hard on himself the poor kid, non-graphic injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firefly264/pseuds/liaw-mostlydead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strife practice comes to a sudden halt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this lovely piece of fan art (http://madragingven.tumblr.com/post/29907499140/hard-lesson)  
> I'd put Dave at about ten or eleven here.

You’re cool, you’re cool, you are _one hundred fucking percent cool right now_.

It’s not like you’ve never gotten a bit sliced up, right? Scars are just part of the Strider swag, thin white lines across biceps and pecs; Bro’s got a killer one along one shoulder blade. Bro is so fucking cool.

What were you talking about again?

Bro. Bro’s been teaching you how to fight, has been for years. He started you on martial arts when you were five, broke out the bokken when you were nine, let you handle a real blade for the first time last year. Striders always win in a fight. Striders always have balance and precision. Striders never start a fight; they just finish them.

You guess he’s won again. 

“ _Hey, stay with me kiddo._ ”

Bro always wins your strifes. He’s got years of experience, he knows exactly where to plant his feet, when to flashstep and when to stop. He’s never lost control of a blade, as long as you’ve seen him hold one. 

He wears these stupid biker gloves; you’ve never figured that out. You get that it stops his sword handle from rubbing his hands raw, but it ain’t like it bugs you enough to need ‘em, and he wears them all the time, it’s so _dumb_ –

He wears these stupid biker gloves; they’re worn and the palms are falling apart and it smells like old sweat and leather close to your face. There’s a thumb pulling at your eyelid, and fleeting contact as fingertips brush along your cheekbone before they pull away. (You miss it). 

“Fuck,” you hear, and you feel like agreeing but your lungs aren’t cooperating, aren’t pushing air up through your windpipe, aren’t bringing sweet words from your lips and you’re vaguely disappointed, cause there’s a beat going in the background and you could lay down some sick rhymes to this. 

You’re dimly realizing that it’s your heart that’s pounding a mile a minute before the whole world tilts and it fucking _hurts_.

Bro doesn’t fuck up. He is un-fuck-up-able. Bro is precision and control and _‘with great power comes great responsibility, dorito, so don’t just go fuckin’ up anyone who pisses you off’_.

Bro fucked up. Or maybe you fucked up and this is the natural consequence. You probably fucked up, and Bro couldn’t pull his swing, and you went down like a bag of rocks, god you fucking _suck_.

You groan as he swings you up off the ground, feeling like you’re leaving your stomach behind. Your shirt is wet and gross on one side, sticking to your skin uncomfortably, and your eyes are open just enough that you can see stark crimson spread across the white fabric.

Damn, you really liked this shirt.

“I gotcha, buddy, no worries.”

It’s weird, being pressed up against his chest like this. Your arms are tucked in between you. You’re a scrawny brat, always have been, and Bro is huge with his broad shoulders and chest, towering over you for as long as you can remember.

You’re probably bleeding on him. 

Your head’s too fuzzy to make sense of much, but you know that this is bullshit. You’re bullshit. You are the king of bullshit, who can’t even walk on his own and fucks up in front of Bro and can’t think straight _shit that hurts_.

Okay, so trying to wriggle your way onto your feet was stupid and painful and you aren’t gonna try that again, especially ‘cause Bro started swearing and scrambling to catch you while shouldering the bathroom door open. 

“Jesus _fuck_ , don’t do fucking _do that_ you brat, holy shit.” 

He fumbles one-handed for the light switch. Shitty fluorescents flood the room with flickering yellow-white. There’s a marionette in the shower and a green smuppet in the sink, and a basket of laundry in the corner. Bro dropped Cal by the door and hasn’t picked him up yet. It’s cramped and dingy, and Bro has to set you down on your feet and guide you down to sit on the toilet, still taking most of your weight. You grip the cold porcelain and hiss through your teeth as you slump down. 

A steady chorus of _you fucked up, you’re fucked, you have fucked up now_ runs through your head. You dimly wonder if you’re saying it out loud. You probably are. You have a problem shutting up sometimes. 

“Sorry,” you hiss, gasping as he sprays antiseptic on the gash along your side. 

Bro doesn’t say anything. Bro’s good at being quiet, he knows how to shut up and not annoy everyone around him. He’s good at shit. You’re good at being shit. And bleeding, you’re apparently good at bleeding too. 

Bro doesn’t say anything for a long while. The only sound is your rapid, shallow breathing as you try not to panic when he starts stitching you up. 

He shoves a few painkillers at you while he wraps a bandage tightly around your abdomen. It’s been a long time since he’s taken care of you. 

(It doesn’t occur to you that that’s a bad thing).

“Take it easy,” he says, standing. He pats the top of your head, and its awkward as shit. “Don’t fuck up my stitches; those are some T-L-fucking-C type shit.”

You nod, dazed and suddenly too tired to do much more than stumble to your room. You sleep like the dead, and Bro doesn’t wake you up with a barrage of smuppets for once. 

When you’re healed a bit more, he sits you down and teaches you how to do proper stitches and sutures. He tells you he won’t be playing doctor for you again, so you can’t get yourself sliced up unless you’re ready to deal with it yourself. 

He takes your stitches out himself anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Bro Strider isn't a good parent. He threw baby Dave _off a roof_ , I don't think he's cut out for fatherhood. But no one will ever convince me that he didn't love the shit out of Dave.


End file.
